Chapter 2: Learning Curves
Tim Bradford's POV
The new boot showed up six minutes early. I made him wait anyway, watching through the station window as he stood by my shop, hands in pockets, studying the gear arrangement in the trunk.
Mercer. The rich kid Lopez said had "interesting instincts." I'd trained twenty boots. Rich kids usually washed out in the first week. Too used to comfort. Too soft.
But Lopez didn't give praise lightly. If she thought he had something, maybe he wasn't completely useless.
I stepped outside. "Officer Mercer."
He straightened. "Sir."
"I don't care whose nephew you are, how much money daddy left you, or what instincts you think you have. In my shop, you're a boot until you prove otherwise." I opened the driver's door. "Are we clear?"
Most boots stammered. Made excuses. Tried to explain themselves.
"Good," Mercer said. "I'm here to prove it, not coast."
I paused, hand on the door. He met my eyes without flinching. Not cocky. Serious.
Maybe this one's different.
"Get in."
Ethan's POV
Tim Bradford drove like he trained—efficient, no wasted movement, always three steps ahead. His silence filled the car, heavy with evaluation.
My danger sense hummed low. Not warning. Just awareness that this man was dangerous in a different way than criminals. He could break me without throwing a punch—just words and dismissal.
"First call," Tim said, voice flat. "Domestic disturbance. You hang back unless I tell you otherwise. Watch. Learn. Don't touch anything."
"Yes, sir."
The apartment complex was rundown. Third floor, door half open. We could hear shouting inside—male voice, slurred and angry. Female crying.
Tim's posture shifted. Combat-ready. He knocked hard. "LAPD. Open up."
The shouting stopped. Footsteps. The door swung wide and a guy in his thirties stood there, eyes red, breath reeking of alcohol.
"What?" he slurred.
"We got a call about a disturbance. Can we come in?"
"No problem here, officer. Just a disagreement."
My lie detection fired. Sharp twist in my chest. He was lying.
Tim's eyes narrowed. He'd caught something too—body language, maybe, or tone. "Sir, step outside. Let's talk."
The guy complied. Tim questioned him while I stood back, watching. Standard procedure. But my stomach kept twisting, warning signals firing faster.
Something's wrong. More wrong than this drunk guy. What am I missing?
Movement in my peripheral vision. Window. Second floor. Someone climbing out.
"Bradford!" I pointed.
Tim's head snapped up. The drunk guy swore and bolted. Tim grabbed him before he made two steps, slammed him against the wall.
"Watch him!" Tim barked at me, then called for backup on his radio while I kept the guy pinned.
The figure from the window hit the ground running. Tim took off after him. I was alone with the drunk and my pounding heart.
"Stay calm," I told him. Told myself. "Backup's coming."
My first arrest. My first actual field action beyond traffic stops. And I'd nearly missed it because I'd been so focused on the lie detection I'd stopped watching the physical space.
Pay attention to everything. Not just the powers. The world still exists.
Tim returned fifteen minutes later with the second suspect in cuffs—turned out they were partners in a burglary ring. The domestic call had been their cover story.
He didn't speak until we were back in the shop.
"You spotted the window guy. Good eyes. But you were so focused on the drunk you didn't see his partner signaling from inside the apartment. You missed details."
"Yes, sir."
"Details keep you alive. Don't forget that."
Later, during scenario training at the station, I watched Tim disarm a practice suspect. Three moves, perfectly executed. The suspect's hand trapped, weapon removed, control established in under two seconds.
My copy ability fired up without conscious thought. My hands itched to replicate those movements.
After the demonstration, Tim pointed at me. "Mercer. Your turn."
The instructor played the suspect. Tim called "Start."
I moved. My body knew the form—I'd copied the visual perfectly. Trap the wrist. Pivot. Extract the weapon.
I got two steps in before my lack of muscle memory caught up with me. The form was right but the power was wrong. I stumbled, lost balance, and landed on my ass.
The room went silent.
Tim stared down at me. "Technique's there. Execution's weak. You've been watching videos, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Gym. Tonight. Build the muscle to back up whatever YouTube taught you." He offered a hand. Pulled me up. "You can't fake physical capability. Don't try."
Lucy Chen smirked from across the mat. Jackson West looked sympathetic.
Great. Now everyone knows I'm the boot who falls on his ass trying to look competent.
But Tim's assessment had been accurate. I could copy the moves, but my body wasn't conditioned to execute them properly. Observation didn't grant physical ability.
One more limitation to work around.
April , 2018 - 5:47 AM
I pulled into the station parking lot with two coffees. Large black, no sugar—Tim's order from yesterday, overheard when he'd grabbed one from the break room. My recall had captured it perfectly, along with the specific way he'd grumbled about the machine making it too weak.
Tim stood by his shop, checking equipment.
"Morning, sir." I offered the coffee. "Figured we could both use it."
He took it. Sipped. Paused mid-sip, eyebrows rising slightly.
"How'd you know?"
I shrugged. "Good memory."
He studied me over the rim of the cup. "You memorize everyone's orders?"
"Only the important ones."
Tim's expression was unreadable. But he nodded. Once. Small gesture.
He noticed. Filed it away. Everything with him is a test.
"Let's roll," he said.
The shift was standard patrol. Traffic stops. Welfare checks. One shoplifting call that ended with a teenager crying and his mother arriving to take him home. Nothing exciting.
But Tim talked more. Explained tactics. Pointed out details I'd missed—how someone walking carried themselves different when they were armed, how to read a room when you entered for the first time, when to trust your gut and when to verify with facts.
My danger sense fired twice. Both times, Tim caught the same threat seconds later through observation. We were starting to sync.
At end of shift, Grey dismissed everyone with his usual gruff efficiency. I headed for the locker room, exhausted but satisfied. Three days down. Still here.
"Mercer."
Tim's voice stopped me. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"Yeah?"
"You're not completely hopeless." He paused. "Emphasis on 'completely.'"
I grinned despite the backhanded nature of it. Coming from Tim Bradford, this was practically a declaration of love.
"Thanks, sir."
"Don't let it go to your head. You've got a long way to go."
"Yes, sir."
He walked away, and I stood there replaying the moment. Tim Bradford, the hardest trainer in Mid-Wilshire, had just acknowledged I wasn't useless.
Day three. Still standing. Still learning.
Jackson doesn't die for years. Andersen has months. I have time to get better. To be ready.
I changed out of my uniform and headed for my car. Nolan was already in his truck, waving through the window.
Tomorrow I'd ride with Bishop. Learn from a third teaching style. Keep building the foundation I'd need when the real tests came.
But tonight, I'd hit the gym like Tim ordered. Because he was right—I couldn't fake physical capability.
And when the time came to save someone's life, I needed to be more than a boot with good instincts.
I needed to be ready.
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